Cagebird
by Sekah
Summary: A year before he was to have met Yusuke Urameshi, Kurama is captured. Luckless chance throws him in the way of Sakyo, where he is subjected to the gambler's tender mercies. Poor Kurama.
1. Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:** Originally done for the kink meme, this exists in its own little time pocket. It's pre-Dark Tournament, but an alternate reality in which Kurama is captured before he ever meets Yusuke Urameshi.

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><p>The smoky air of the Black Book Club's auction was ridden with perfume, cologne and poison. The businessmen, his partners in crime, were the focal points, prostitutes of both sexes pushed out of their laps or dragged stumbling into them. Waitresses and whores, trophy wives and abused slaves, all circled around the juncture of the men, who circled around the juncture of the stage, where a sad-looking young lizard demon was going for less than he was worth. Sakyo took a deep drag of his cigarette, feeling the sick, slow thrill of it. He watched the gavel come down, the demon's fate sealed, through the exhale of smoke.<p>

Johnson was racking it up tonight: another for his whorehouse.

Sakyo rarely bought at these auctions. Most of the time, he was the one who provided the slaves used in them, and if there were any that caught his eye they never made it to sale. Many times, they never made it to another morning. But Sakyo was feeling violent and lustful tonight, Toguro stood behind him like an impenetrable wall, and, worse for the merchandise, a very nice glass of Irish whiskey was swirling idly in his hand.

Sakyo leaned forward slightly when the auctioneer held up his hand, the gavel held loosely in it bobbing with his deep breaths, just as choked as Sakyo was by the various inhalable drugs and thick odors permeating the air as he settled them all down. Butajiri shoved a little mouse demon off his cock, knowing that the final bid was always the best, the rarest. Sakyo didn't have to look around to know that interest was stirring, thanks to the rumors that had been carefully leaked of the uncommon quality of the final bid.

Sakyo himself leaned forward, knowing that this was an item that hadn't come from his own demon trade, and had remained quite hush-hush. Sakyo hadn't pushed the envelope, curious and wanting a surprise, hoping he would not merely be bored. An elegant silver cage on wheels, a tarp of exquisite velvet draped over its top, was maneuvered forward.

"We found this one in the human realm," the auctioneer intimated, smiling conspiringly with the crowd. "He's unbroken and put up quite a fight, so you'll have to forgive the sedation. The auction's sponsors are proud to present to you our first ever silver kitsune, in human form."

The curtain rose, yanked from the cage by the auctioneer, revealing two beefy men, dressed in suits and sunglasses, and between them, Adonis.

It was small: average sized or a bit short for a Japanese boy in his early teens, fourteen or fifteen and obviously no more, and thin, wan, pale, beautiful, without an ounce of fat on it, just rippling and smooth young muscle. Dainty feet hung in front of the two men's hands, which held it up by his knees, and hair colored like rubies, like blood, curled around its face, with two lax white animal ears hanging from its head, and a single tail, catching the light like spun silver, hanging limply from its rear. It was male: the proof was well proportioned and flaccid between its legs, soft and dangling.

"This little angel conned a human woman into giving birth to him when he was close to death, and has lived out the last fourteen years as a human boy; until we found and subdued him, that is. Look at his skin, a smooth cream, and his face…" One of the two men tilted up its chin, showing a fine-boned and plush-lipped visage that had Sakyo leaning forward imperceptibly, surprised to hear Toguro shifting beside him, for the man never, when he was in guard mode, moved a centimeter, not one millimeter left, right, back, or forward. "Well, I don't think I can find an appropriate adjective for such a face." The auctioneer opened his hands, inviting the chuckles and leers, skillfully goading the men forward until there wasn't a man in the room who didn't dream, pulse, _yearn_ to break in the little kitsune.

Sakyo settled in, determined to wait it out as the bidding was started at 50 million and began to jump higher and higher.

"Did I mention its back is untried? Well—perhaps the front is too."

The lust was filling the air, the wide eyes, a pretty shade of green, watering with tears even through the drug.

"It's a deceitful little thing, gentlemen," the auctioneer chuckled, "you'll have to punish it often and well."

Sakyo didn't miss the way the auctioneer stopped calling it 'he' and started objectifying it with 'it' once the bidding intensified, a common enough practice to set lusts on edge, tantalize the bidders.

"700 million!"

"750."

"Ma . . . ma . . ."

The voice shocked everyone, people looking around for the husky, mellifluous thing.

"I'll . . . kill you," the kitsune, the source of the sudden sound, whispered, slurring the last two words together with its neck lolling out of the grunt's hand, big emerald eyes filling with tears that overflowed down porcelain cheeks, catching the makeup that had been used to enhance its pretty features on the way down to its chin.

Sakyo's eyebrow cocked. He knew what drugs they'd used on the kit. It shouldn't have been able to do much more than blink, the barbiturate a special thing to relax the senses so one lay catatonic, though engineered to cause dry-mouth, so the victim stayed barely conscious without any unpleasant drooling.

Watching it shift a little, Sakyo was struck by how hard it must be fighting the drug, how desperate it must be. He could feel his erection, but did nothing for it yet, knowing that no one would be able to outbid him, and surprised and intrigued, as he'd hoped he'd be, as had happened so rarely in the past.

This kitsune was worth everything Sakyo needed to give. He would have him tonight.

The weak sadists, the ones who preferred an easy break, had been frightened off by the little thing's tenacity. The sadists who were thrilled at the idea of a challenge lay down rising bids, 800, 900, and so forth. Sakyo bided his time, offering nothing.

Finally, the moment to strike hit.

"I hear 1.2 billion! Going at 1.2 billion. Anyone willing to top Mr. Johnson's 1.2 billion? I hear no one. Going," the gavel rose, "going," the gavel rose higher, "go—"

Sakyo's voice echoed out like a striking snake, like a grandmaster's hand darting towards a piece. "Two billion," he announced. Sakyo took a drag on his cigarette, listening to shocked murmurs. It seemed the other members of the Black Book Club had become complacent, forgotten that Sakyo also indulged in things like this. Sakyo didn't have to turn to see Johnson was spluttering, but he wouldn't top a bid like that for a single piece of merchandise, and he certainly didn't want to risk making an enemy of Sakyo. Sakyo was pleased. Forcing Johnson to give up the item after he'd won it wouldn't have been impossible, but Johnson would have started his "modifications" the second he got it in the car, and Sakyo would rather the kitsune keep both pairs of pretty arms and legs.

For now.

Sakyo felt his lips pull into a trademark sickening grin, his cold blue eyes glowing like neon at the thought of all the twisted desires he could bring to life. He wouldn't even kill it yet; it had some months still to live. It was young—it would keep—but within a week it would seek death. They always did, and Sakyo always stopped them. It was only when they gave up hope, or gained hope, that he killed them. Complacency was their end.

Toguro shifted again—unprecedented, twice in one night—and then leaned down to speak in Sakyo's ear.

"Grant a favor, Mr. Sakyo?"

"Oh?"

The demon whispered into a devil's ear, and the devil listened, his smile running bizarre, sublime, as he thought of the torture to come.

_**To be continued.**_


	2. Petting and Treats

Kurama woke up from his sedation and immediately tried to push himself up and stand, body vibrating with smothered instinct. His desperation was useless: he got his aching, pounding head a few inches off the floor before it was jerked down again. At first, Kurama wanted to write it off as the drug pain, because his neck and head and upper back and anywhere with nerves or muscles connected directly to his head was white hot with agony.

The truth, however, frightened him more than the drugs had, more than being kidnapped, perhaps even more than seeing his mother's death and being unable to stop it, prevent it.

He was chained. His fingers tried to drift up to touch the iron collar that was digging into too-tense muscles like a branding iron, to fondle the warded chain that was fastened to the floor with almost no slack, but then realized his hands were fisted and restrained as well. A cuff?

He looked down to see a manacle with a full leather pouch covering his fingers. And over that?

Paws. A cloth had quite simply been decorated with a picture of a fox's paw. And it was the same color as his new tail: clearly and exorbitantly made for him.

Kurama wanted to growl, but found it too fitting of the role he suspected they wanted to force him into, so he said nothing, his tail and ears stiffening, looking without looking for the danger that would be approaching.

And there was the feared presence, sitting splay-legged directly in front of him.

Kurama tried to raise his head to meet the threat, hissing in pain as iron dug into his neck muscles and blurred and muddied his sight with tears. He looked up, and blinked the tears out, letting them fall freely so he could see his surroundings.

Bars. Some form of metal bars. And beyond that, a pair of shoes, designer patent leather, but staid, for all that, though of extremely high quality and reeking of polish. Kurama's long bangs were hiding everything but the man's shoes and the cuffs of his silk slacks behind a scarlet curtain. Surreptitious shakes of the head did no good, and Kurama cursed his long hair for the first time in his life, knowing he would have shaved it all off preemptively if he'd known that that would give him a real look at this particular adversary. From what he could see, this enemy had medium to big feet, was obviously tall, and seemed to be a human male. His balance was good—he had clearly been trained in martial arts—but he didn't have the unthinkingly precise way of carrying himself a high-class demon did.

"I have one question, little kit."

Kurama's ears swiveled forward and perked against his will, half-rising from his head, one, annoyingly enough, coming further up than the other.

"What's your name?"

The voice confirmed his suspicions of the man's humanity. Few demons had that subtle rasp of a smoker in such a smooth voice, even if they had lived among ningens long enough to pick up the habit.

"No business of yours," Kurama hissed, too unused to his new appendages to stop his ears from flattening to his head and the fur on his arching tail from standing up.

"I know the name you took as a human, of course," the voice continued, calm despite his defiance. "Shuuichi Minamino. Perhaps I should call you that?"

Kurama's eyes clenched, losing more tears, his nails biting into his palms beneath the cuffs.

_Shiori, Shiori dead, him defenseless, screaming wordless denials and mad threats at the bastards who had stolen her from him, enraged that things could have taken such a turn but helpless when they dragged him away—_

"Kurama," he said too quickly, wanting to bury his memories and emotions, and then cursed himself.

Now this unknown man knew that the sudden end to his human life was painful for him, a sore wound to his soul. It was fuel for the fire and fodder for Kurama's destruction, handed over thoughtlessly. Kurama called himself twenty kinds of idiot.

"I see," his captor said, his inflection thoughtful. Kurama had no doubts he did see, too. "You performed your first trick admirably, Kurama. I'll give you a treat."

Kurama tensed, but was surprised when his neck began to rise. The chains were attached to a hole in both the bottom of the cage and the floor, and after a single rustle of the man's arm, they went from holding Kurama's body pressed into the concrete bottom of the cage to a much more reasonable length. Rather than having a scant four inches between the collar and the floor, he now was allowed a good two feet.

Kurama sat up with a sigh of relief, his legs curling beneath him, though they parted slightly from modesty at his nude and vulnerable state to allow his tail to curl forward, shielding his more private areas. Bound hands reached up to paw at his collar, green eyes glancing around and attempting to take in his surroundings without appearing to.

He was in a cage, as he'd suspected, an iron, concrete-bellied thing hung with wards. Through the bars there was nothing but drywall and a plaster ceiling. The only real decoration in this place, which was devoid even of cracks in the moldings, was a single fireside chair, an incongruous silken thing that was plush and expensive and comfortable, where his new master sat nursing a finger of brandy, melting over ice.

Kurama studied the man before him. He looked relaxed, violent, handsome in a cold kind of way, with glowing blue eyes framed by long black hair and a face marred by a single scar. Whether it was a wound from a knife slash or a demon's claw, Kurama didn't know, and didn't want to find out.

The stranger's next words made him freeze in place. "Unfortunately, you also spoke out of turn. Toguro, give him his bone and clean him. He loves a good petting, I'm sure. They always do."

"No," Kurama snarled, afraid of what petting might entail. The steps that peeled from another wall behind him made him panic. He tried to turn, but couldn't manage it well enough to get a good look at the man coming for him. This one was no human: despite the apparent weight of a being nine feet high with quite a bit of bulk, his footsteps were quiet. A lock was undone, and a metal door, obviously the door to the cage, swung open, then closed with a clang. Before Kurama could think of a method for escape or the means for a fight, something round and stinking was shoved between his teeth, nylon straps reaching around and buckling under his hair. It felt like a ball-gag, but something was coming out of it, pressing against Kurama's lips, something—in the shape of a bone?

Kurama gave in and growled, the only angry sound he could make through the rubber gag. A hand whose size frightened him gripped the juncture of chain to collar and turned the collar and Kurama's body about so the chain was at the back of his neck and Kurama lay on his back, half in this monster's lap, thrashing and trying to land a punch, terrified by the look in Toguro's black eyes.

Toguro shushed him, his big hands reaching down for a startling caress. Thick fingers ran over Kurama's sensitive ear, which flicked away irately; chucked him under the chin, making him flinch; and then delved lower, lower, over chest and body until they reached the inside of Kurama's narrow young thighs. Kurama stopped the useless strikes and blocked his face with his cuffed hands, tears soaking into the cloth images of paws, as the man massaged the juncture of his hip to his groin, the strength in those enormous hands making Kurama shake.

When the palm of Toguro's left slid smoothly over dewy, nubile skin, from his groin to his cock, pushing aside Kurama's protectively curled tail, Kurama whined. His dick tripped awake, traitorous and needy already, Kurama quivering and removing his bound hands to stare fearfully up with his tearful eyes at the giant who knelt above him. Toguro was big. That was a simple, fear-provoking fact. When the man drew Kurama into his lap, Kurama gulped audibly and shifted uncomfortably, averting his eyes when he felt the mammoth erection hidden by Toguro's trousers and the tails of his long green trench coat, the buttons of which dug into Kurama's ass.

Frantic 'mm!'s and choking gasps were the only sounds Kurama could make when a hand so large and strong that its friction felt more like being taken into a body than being jerked surrounded Kurama's rigid flesh. Ashamed, aching at the man's skill, Kurama felt his balls cinch up, unable to stop his desperate moans as the hand massaged and pumped him gruffly, humiliated tears leaking faster and faster down the sides of his face, caught in a puddle next to his nose. He tried to push the man away, couldn't, and found himself pawing at him instead, face tight from his disgrace.

The other hand reached up in a gesture of fondness, cupping his face around the nylon strap of the gag and wiping away his tears with a big thumb. Kurama's neck arched back, revealing the pale column of a practically edible throat, slicked by tears, saliva, and a new sheen of sweat.

Toguro squeezed the hand mercilessly tormenting Kurama, and the fox curved back farther and felt his nipples prick up and hard, the hand on his face reaching down to massage and pinch at them. Kurama's legs began to kick, his head tossing from side to side, his back a serpentine arch, shoulderblades and head off of Toguro's lap and scuffed by concrete, lower back and hips splayed up over Toguro's own hips and crossed knees, Kurama's delicate legs parted around his thick waist.

Kurama felt his orgasm rushing over him, his balls tightening and his hips thrusting so fast they were vibrating, and he was smooth and full and almost there and it was cresting—

It was at that exact moment, Kurama's body arching in unwanted ecstasy, that Toguro's hand tightened viciously. Two fingers unkindly twisted a nipple, the bruising grip on Kurama's cock drawing a scream from his lips that made his jaw creak, though the sound was partially muffled by the gag. Miserable painful fiery heat and frustration vibrated through his body, his thighs clenching and beating almost innocently against Toguro's cruel fist.

Kurama's mind was a mess, tears leaking freely down his face and dribbling to the concrete ground. His hands — paws — went up from where they'd been digging into the man's coat to the top of his head, in an attempt to claw his own hair, fingers arching against the leather restraints until his nails threatened to snap at the agonizing pressure of the build-up that had been betrayed.

"Couldn't let you get dirty, pet," Toguro chuckled, speaking for the first time. "Here, now, I'll clean you up."

A tap squeaked and water hit metal, then cloth, then metal, and something wet was dragged languidly, maliciously, up his cock. Kurama couldn't see, didn't want to see, knowing that his dick was still rigid from the orgasm he'd been denied, and certain he'd been gripped so tight he'd get bruises there, on the sensitive skin of his penis.

His headache had been relieved somewhat, but the pain in his cock and the buzzing, nagging, rending frustration would go on.

Toguro shushed him. "There now," he rumbled, "that wasn't so bad, was it?" Kurama refused to look at him, his eyes clenched tight, letting tears escape without a second thought. Toguro laughed, reading his body's signs correctly. "Alright, perhaps it was," he said, his voice affectionate. "But not so bad as what's coming. Sorry, boy: I haven't given you your bone yet."

At that, Kurama startled and let out a muffled yell, rolling on his side, still half in Toguro's lap. He covered himself with his tail and pulled up his legs, paws going down to hide himself further, shoulders jerking up by his ears. He quivered in terror.

"Sh, little one. I asked Sakyo for the favor of your virginity, you see." Toguro pet the boy's lean, pale side, finding the cringing and shaking endearing. "Of course, I'd have asked for you first anyway." Toguro paused, contemplating Kurama as he lay there miserably, making himself small as though hoping that he could shrink enough to disappear. Toguro pitied him. This little half-demon was too pretty for his own good. He was small, sweet, helpless, and had no hope anymore, though he didn't know it yet. Toguro pushed aside the boy's hair. For a moment – just for a moment – a weird and, nowadays, rarely seen image superimposed over the boy. The hair . . . it felt like hers. Toguro realized that a part of him wanted to protect this poor creature.

It was a part that was easily crushed.

Still, perhaps a small kindness or two wouldn't go amiss. He looked up and met intrigued, electric blue eyes that drank in Toguro and the boy's positions thirstily. Small ones, or Sakyo was apt to be disappointed. Toguro looked down at the kitsune half off his lap, curling in on itself, and pet a curl from the boy's temple.

It would be another regret. Another note in Spirit World's file. Another rung on his ladder down to hell. But Toguro had long ago separated himself from his conscience, and this regret, this note, this rung, was just one of many. _Well,_ he thought. _No time like the present._

And with that, he reached out for Kurama, his fingers sliding apologetically for a moment through the soft, prickled fur of his tail.

Toguro gripped the tufted, furry base of Kurama's new appendage, which seemed to be a smooth continuation of the boy's spine, and pulled. Kurama whimpered in pain, clenching his legs and gripping the fuzzy tip of his tail in both hands, refusing to let go and expose his ass to Toguro. Another unkind tug sent tears rolling, but Kurama wasn't letting up.

"Do you want me to rip it off, fox?" Kurama said nothing, his face turned into the rough concrete off Toguro's lap. "Let go."

That provoked a reaction: Kurama shook his head pitifully, eyes clenched shut, body curling even tighter. Toguro sighed at the wretchedness and defiance, and curled his fingers around the swell where the tail left Kurama's back. He clenched his fist and twisted, yanked, and Kurama let out a scream. Toguro knew that tails were incredibly sensitive, on demons as well as animals, as were ears.

At that thought, Toguro reached up and pinched Kurama's ear as well, threatening to pierce it with his blunt nails. The pain made Kurama let go, finally, his eyes watering. Instantly, Toguro stopped the cruel twisting and dragged the bushy length from between Kurama's legs, then pulled him up farther by his merciless grip until Kurama's legs were straight and the lower half of his body, at least, was almost standing. Kurama's neck was pulled down by the chain and collar, however, forcing his arms to press in front of him to support his weight, nearly bent in half.

Saliva dribbled luridly from between his teeth, forced apart by the ball gag. He tried to shove the rubber out of his mouth with his tongue, but couldn't, only getting a thicker taste of it, until he almost wanted to vomit from the disgusting rancid flavor. It had been used on someone else: recently, even. The whole thing, the circumstance and the unpalatable tang of it, was repugnant to Kurama.

Toguro's lips ran idly over Kurama's sac, not slicked and not sucking, merely curious of the boy's member, which was now, thanks to the new position, in front of Toguro's face. A broad tongue swiped along the soft, dangling balls. Kurama quivered until his knees buckled for a moment, dragging another scream from him as he was suspended for a few seconds by his tail.

Toguro saw it and chuckled, lowering Kurama smoothly to his knees. Kurama let out a little breath when the aching pressure on his tail softened to a caress. He quaked when he heard Toguro spit and mouth something behind him, clearly slicking it up, grunting quietly to himself as he did. Kurama tensed, muscles tight and shuddering while his tail automatically covered his hole, but a big hand encircled it and pulled it brusquely aside.

"Don't cover yourself, little one," Toguro growled, holding the tail away. "It'll do no good." Then, stroking the tensed ring of muscles for a moment, with a rich grunt from the man and a sobbing whine from the boy, Toguro's thick index finger forced its way inside, curling and wiggling confidently and ruthlessly, Toguro's excitement making him heartless, thoughtless of the kit's suffering, his mind full of innocent tight muscles that would massage his cock like a vice.


End file.
